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When you find yourself dwelling on who or what is holding you back in life, think of 7 year-old Annie Clark, a first-grader who recently won a penmanship award established for children with either a “cognitive delay or intellectual, physical or development disability.” Annie, a Chinese adoptee, was born without hands.

“Annie has always been very, very determined, very self-sufficient in dressing herself and feeding herself,” Mr. Clark said. “She can ride a bike. She swims. She is just determined that there’s nothing she can’t do.”

Her father said she also types on a keyboard and uses an iPod Touch with no difficulties.

Okay, who is this Amazian Jr.–a squooshy-cheeked boy lip syncing for his life to Christina Aguilera’s Burlesque track, “Express”–and how can Jen and I recruit him as our mascot?

He may not know all the words to the song. He may not have legs long enough to drape over the top of a chair back. And I can’t say that, watching him go, I didn’t worry that his cute little sequined bum was about to land hard on the floor during most of this routine.

But let us keep our criticisms to ourselves, fellow Hardass Asians! Baby is FIERCE. And he owns a DRESS WITH BOSOM HANDPRINTS on it. A DRESS WITH BOSOM HANDPRINTS. This young buck has more nerve than I ever had at his age–likely more then I ever will have at any age.

I have two male cousins that were born to and raised by the most intense woman I’ve ever met–my mom’s oldest sister. She’s my tough-as-nails, crazy-as-a-chicken, Hardass Asian Aunt and one Meanass Asian Mom. She probably thinks General McChrystal is a total pussy. Lady is intense.

In my aunt’s house, no drinks were consumed by children before their entire dinner (like a two-gallon bowl of Pho) was completely finished. Football games were not attended. Slumber parties were off limits. Piano was practiced at least two hours a day. The icing on the cake? No birthdays were celebrated, either. No parties, no presents, nothin’.

I always imagined that if I had grown up in that house, I would have spent most of my time huddled in my bedroom, pretending to study or folding my clothes. In my alone time I would’ve thrown myself countless imaginary birthday parties, given myself infinite imaginary gifts, blown out hundreds of imaginary birthday candles. Why? Because sometimes it’s nice to celebrate being alive.

Anyway, the moral of this story is… well, there is no moral. And, to be perfectly honest, my parents threw me lots of nice birthday parties, and as a result I have blown out A LOT of trick candles in my day. I didn’t have to throw myself imaginary parties. But that doesn’t mean I can’t give myself a birthday present, because dammit, it’s my birthday today! Woohoo!

And she whips her hair back and forth, she whips her hair back and forth…

I don’t even know if she’s Asian, but it hardly matters, because we’ll draft her one way or another, and convince her to be our official DISGRASIAN choreographer-in-residence, wherein she’ll teach us how to whip our hair on our smoke breaks.

I’m going to say this once even though I know that many of you won’t believe me, many more will scoff, and even more will ridicule me for it:

THE MOVIE IS NOT THAT BAD.

I saw it last Thursday, fully convinced it was going to be a stinker–likely for the same reasons as you: Your best friend walked out of the theater grousing about what a drop-kick to feminism this flick is (by the way, should we really be looking to movies that contain bedazzled logos for feminist benchmarks?). The 16% Rotten Tomatoes rating is simply… pathetic. The “I Am Woman” karaoke scene is worse than it sounds (in fact, every musical number is worth a cringe). Someone told you about the burqa escape scene (sadly, true) and multiple appearances/mentions of camels/magic carpets (also true).

But by golly, I’ll stand behind my statement. SATC2 is fun, familiar, and a worthwhile way to spend a few evening hours, especially for a die-hard fan that’s willing to watch the PG-macheted, syndicated reruns on TBS every night while ordering dinner (or owns an SJP fragrance). That, my friends, is who I am. Jen is like, my full-on bestie, and even she has only just begun to understand the extend of my SATC nerd-dom. I’m like a Trekkie, but for Sex (or as Jen’s best mate calls us, “sluts!”)

I know some of you are all gonna get aaaaaallll up in my grill for recommending you buy an $85 tee, but think of the kids! They’re little and Asian American, which means they’re the cutest small people you’d ever want to meet! Surely they deserve a few extra bucks. And just to say it again, look at that drape at the neck!!!

My family fled war-torn Vietnam in June of 1975 by secretly hopping aboard a freight ship meant to carry textiles. Someone tipped my mom’s brother off to the opportunity and he immediately rounded up the rest of the relatives. They hastily collected their meager belongings, then hustled to the dock. My family was joined by about 200 other people on the shore. The ship docked and everyone quietly boarded the ship, tucking themselves into the dark nooks, while dozens of jumbo bins were loaded onto the deck. The ship left shore once again, and after a number of miles some of the bins began to move, as 150 more people emerged from underneath. They all went to America.

Every time my mom and I talk about this particularly fascinating bit of their story, we clash over one point.

I say, “So that’s how you came here!”

She says, “Yes, we came on a boat.”

I say, “Right. So you were boat people that came–”

She cuts me off and shrieks, “WE ARE NOT BOAT PEOPLE!”

I say, “Didn’t we just talk about the boat you came on?”

She says, “It was a freight ship!”

I say, “Isn’t a ship a large boat?”

Then she stops talking to me. Moms are so weird.

Today, I saw photos of those womb-rumbling cutie patooties Maddox and Pax Jolie-Pitt cruising coolly around the canals in a sweet speedboat:

In Touch caused quite a stir this week by releasing an exclusive interview with “Bill,” a man who claims to be a former bodyguard for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. The “ugly truth?” Angie’s apparently a bad mother:

“Bill’s” testimony:

“In my opinion, the real Angelina is self-centered and a control freak. She has no patience at all. She doesn’t do things out of the kindness of her heart. And she’s totally psycho.” While Brad is laid-back and patient with his kids’ often wild behavior, Angelina is anything but. “She screams and yells a lot, then walks away,” Bill says, explaining that Angelina would often “disappear into her suite for hours,” leaving staffers — and Brad — to deal with her children. “She would punish them with silence,” says Bill, adding, “I think she could be abusive at times in a mental way.” If the children were to get upset by her withholding behavior, he says, Angelina didn’t seem to care. “She is not moved by tears,” he explains. Still more disturbing, he recalls, Angelina has a “quirky habit” of “giggling when one of her kids would start crying.”

Here’s a theory: Perhaps Mama Jolie has just been trying her darndest to be an authentic Hardass Asian Mom for her boys! Has anybody ever stopped to think of that? If this guy speaks the truth*, she’s doing a damn good job of giving Maddox and Pax a slice of home!